


Breathless

by novel_concept26



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Bo's hands that leave her breathless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

It’s Bo’s hands that leave her breathless.

The rest of it has its place: the strength of Bo’s charm, the confidence of her kiss, her unwavering desire to be where Lauren is, standing for her with unmatched loyalty, no matter what. The rest of it is there, no use denying it. You can’t be in love with just  _one_  aspect of a person.

But Bo’s hands…

If there was going to be  _one aspect_ , that would be it.

There’s just something about it, about the way Bo’s fingers search through her hair, twisting thick gold strands around until she can’t begin to dream of moving away. Something about the way Bo’s palms frame her face, sliding to cradle the back of her skull like she never wants to let go. Something about the way Bo’s nails scrape across her scalp, etching tiny pink marks into the skin of her arms, her breasts, her belly. Bo touches her like she’s perpetually reaching, like she’s scared to death—like, if she doesn’t hold on as tight as she knows how, all of this will slip away.

She can’t help sinking into it now, now that they’re really  _doing_  this. Bo’s hands flick and flash, catching hold of her the second she walks through the door. Fingers intertwine with her own and pull with all of the raw, excitable magnetism of a very young child with a new toy worth showing off. They make it to the bedroom in record time, and before she knows it, Lauren is cowing beneath the gentle pressure of palms against her chest, pushing back. 

She thumps onto the mattress and bounces once, giddy with the unreality of it all. They’ve done this, and it was wonderful, but it wasn’t  _this_. It didn’t have a name to it—not one Lauren was proud of, anyway; too much trickery, too much running away—and this time…

This time, she’s so proud, she thinks she might well burst with the welling heat of it all.

Bo follows her onto the bed, knees on either side of Lauren’s hips, hands pushing steadily at clothing until it, too, bows to her whim. Buttons unlatch from their positions; a shirt falls willingly from smooth shoulders; a tank top pools on the floor, one more article in a spreading pond of clothing that never seems to find a home. Lauren leans up, into the ride, her eyes tracking Bo’s every movement. It feels new, somehow.

New, yes, but familiar—beautifully so. The path of Bo’s gaze, smoothly cutting up and down until there’s nothing left but  _Lauren—_ no pet of the Ash, no curious human specimen, no doctor. Just Lauren, as she stands with only Bo. A woman, and nothing more—is glorious. It’s warm, and it’s safe, and it devours her inch by inch until she feels there is nothing left of her but that woman. The woman in love. The woman  _Bo_  loves. 

It’s never been quite this simple before.

Bo’s eyes drink her in, and even as they do, those hands are roving. One thumb traces the line of her jaw, the arch of her cheekbone; fingertips pattern behind her ear, curling and holding firm. Bo kisses her, deep, brimming with something that makes Lauren dizzy to calculate too long, and her other hand skates down one arm, across a breast, pressing to the softness of her belly.

She’s kissing back in frantic, whimpering nips, and she’s astonished to find her own hands working a hazily unplanned path across Bo’s face and shoulders and arms. If Bo is grasping her like she expects the whole world to crumble beneath her, Lauren is no less desperate. Bo is  _here_ , with her, and the irrationally wild part of her—the irrationally  _in love_   part—is humming all over with the dream of it, but the other part…the solid part, the wholly reasonable, doctor side she can’t tamp down forever…that part isn’t so sure.

Isn’t sure at all, in fact, because who’s to say this is going to last? Humans play the long game. Fae aren’t so predictable. 

And this is  _Bo_.

She clings to Bo’s biceps, hips working in frantic, pumping spasms as Bo bears down on her. Her back hits the soft pillows, and she sighs; this part is the same. The part where Bo draws the crimson sheets up to shield their nakedness, the part where Bo’s hips roll down to meet hers, the part where a rhythm is set, and Lauren can’t remember which one of them wrote the tempo…this is the same. The sort of heady comfort, like listening to the pins unlock in your parents’ front door after a long time away. The sort of heavy, blanketing warmth, like slipping into a bath at the end of a terribly stressful day. 

The sort of dreamy, unexpected love, like dropping ass-over-tea-kettle for a stunningly magnificent woman who might well shatter your heart. 

She’s fragile, she knows. Fragile, and human, and overwhelmingly innocent of the things Bo needs to stay sane. She knows it, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now, because Bo’s own fragility is staggering. Bo is clasping a hand to her breast, kneading in tender strokes, the crease of her brow sending shivers snaking down Lauren’s spine. Bo is loving her the way she’s never been loved by anyone, matching the rhythm of her pounding heart to Bo’s own. Bo’s hands are strong, and searching, and hopeful.

She raises her hips when two fingers go sweeping below her bellybutton, twisting low and sliding deep, and gasps a hitched breath against the curve of Bo’s shoulder. Bo’s hands are desperate, fervent, trembling with anticipation, and still, Lauren has never felt safer in her life. Squirming to meet Bo’s speed, angling to capture Bo’s driving, powerful kiss again, she’s never felt quite so  _invested_  in something like this. 

Bo’s got her in to the hilt, and she finds herself thinking wildly of King Arthur’s beloved sword. She’s in now, as deep as Excalibur in that damn stone, and there’s no hope of worrying herself free again. This isn’t the kind of love-‘em-and-leave-‘em game girls play to get off. This is the real deal. This is this now-and-forever. This is hopeless.

Bo’s got her spiraling before she even realizes they’ve come this far. She’s twisting recklessly upon the bed, one hand bunched around rumpled sheets, and Bo is slinking low, kissing every patch of skin she meets along the way, closing her lips around Lauren and running her tongue in a circle that makes her head zip dizzingly near the edge. She twists, and moans, and rucks up hard into the powerful hand stroking her to completion, and thinks for one second,  _This is flying. This is what it feels like to reach the height of everything and then to just—fall—_

And fall she does, hard, fast, but Bo’s hands are there before there’s time to fear a thing. Bo’s hands, smoothing across her inner thigh, cupping behind her bent knee, tracing the lines of her abdomen. Bo’s fingers, etching endless reminders around her elbow, between her breasts, padding tiny promises into the hollow of her throat and the arch of her collarbone. Bo holds to her, thigh pressed sticky-sweet between her legs, and kisses her forehead, cheeks, lips in random succession. Bo smiles, and Lauren thinks that, if this falling, she’ll do it every day for the rest of her life, no questions asked.

It seems she must always belong to someone. Bo would scoff at that. Bo would shake her head. In her eyes, Lauren is no one’s property. 

But she’ll be damned if that’s so, where Bo’s hands are concerned. Bo’s hands have her tethered and tied. They have from the very beginning, from the first bold press of palm to cheek. If Bo doesn’t know _that_ …

Well.

Bo has never quite understood the breadth of her power.


End file.
